


Elephant Hands

by HistWhist



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, M/M, Protective Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistWhist/pseuds/HistWhist
Summary: Life as a recently fledged artist hasn't been the nicest walk in the park, but Steve's known that from the first day he walked into art school. And it looks like all that work is finally paying off - he's landed a showing at one of the bigger venues in town.To celebrate Nat's taken it upon herself to finally drag the reclusive, overworked hermit out to the circus - one night, for goodness' sake. And it would have been fine if he hadn't run into Bucky Barnes, a circus performer who Steve is absolutely certain is a muse sent from the gods.Bucky would be more concerned about the fact that Steve is so damn hot it should be illegal if things backstage weren't already on fire.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! First time posting, eek - would love to hear any and all feedback! :)

Steve had eaten his last banana as a mid-afternoon snack yesterday, a decision he was now mildly regretting. For as much as he prided himself on his organizational skills, he never seemed to plan quite far enough: if he remembered to re-stock on brushes, he'd forget the canvases (he liked juggling ten different paintings at once, thank you very much); if he remembered to drop off his prescription slip at the pharmacy desk, he’d forget to bring his insurance card.

So. No banana for today. That’s alright, he shrugs mentally, doing his best to ignore the flip-flopping of his stomach. Besides, his nerves are becoming more of a nuisance than an actual indicator of his stress. This wasn’t his first time around the block. Who needs beta-blockers anyways? As it is, he tugs a little at his shirt cuffs, wrings his clammy hands a little, and stares up at the entrance of the building in front of him. He can’t recall exactly how many times in the past few weeks he’d traipsed up and down these stairs, running around trying to get his exhibit propped up in time. If that didn’t contribute to any sort of muscle mass gain, he didn’t know what would.

He clomps his way up the short flight. As far as he’s concerned, the building is as picturesque a structure as all the other buildings in the area – Philly could hardly be called an eyesore. He’s sure Nat will have something to say about it, though. He’ll have to ask her about it later.

Even though he doesn’t mentally feel nervous, he can’t say the same for his body – his heart is beating so loudly in his chest, he’s sure the people walking by can hear it. Stop it, he scolds himself internally. This isn’t your first showing. Not even your second. You’ve been showing your art since junior year of college, he reminds himself. But it could your first important one, the voice in his head niggles. As if he didn’t already know.

Booking a showing at the Sentinel – and a solo one at that – had been the result of several years’ worth of hustling and ass-hauling, and Steve would be damned if he didn’t recognize the weight of what this particular showing meant for his career. This meant that, inasmuch as it was a celebratory occasion, it was also terribly nerve-wracking. He pulls open the door at the top of the steps, inhaling the cold, musty scent of the building.

“Interior looks a bit like a haunted hotel,” Clint had remarked, when Steve first mentioned the showing location, several months earlier. He hadn’t been wrong, Steve had thought dryly, the first time he entered the structure. Dark, carved panels, gilded support columns, a wood floor polished by years of foot traffic – a gold chandelier hanging morosely over the front desk, for goodness sake. But the more he frequented the space – which he did, partly for logistics and finding the showroom space, partly to pinch himself out of disbelief, and partly out of sheer curiosity – the more he found it glowed with a subdued sort of energy more akin to hot glass than to the unsettled dead.

* * *

 

He wanders up the tan colored stairs, zigzagging his way up to the third floor and making a calm, but purposeful, beeline for the Whistler Gallery. He flips the switch to the right of the door, and the lights flicker on as a soft, but not unpleasant, electrical buzz fills the space. Warmth blooms in his stomach as he looks around the pristine room.

Various paintings and sketches hang from the walls, or are installed on tripods in the middle of the maple floors. Splashes of color boldly intrude onto the white canvas of the room. As silly as it sounds, Steve feels like a real artist now. Not that he wasn’t one before, but somehow his work seems more official when it’s not sitting on his apartment floor, leaning against his wall. He wanders over to the back of the room, hauling out a bent cardboard box and digging the mini pamphlets out. He’s just got a few more tiny details to take care before everything is absolutely perfect.

“Looks good.” A sudden break in the long silence makes him jump and he swears softly under his breath before pivoting on his heel.

“You tread more quietly than an assassin,” he complains to the bemused redhead leaning against the doorframe. She huffs a quiet laugh, peeling herself off the frame and walking over to peer over his shoulder.

“Or you’re just highly unobservant,” she suggests.

“I’m a painter. I’m all sorts of observant, thank you very much.”

“Like the time you were studying color theory and got yourself kicked out of the chapel because you were sprinting back and forth between different stained glass windows?”

“That’s besides the point!” Steve splutters into the pamphlets. His headshot looks more like a mug shot, he thinks, catching a glimpse on the reverse side of one of the booklets.

Nat prowls around the gallery, her arms crossed as she takes in each piece. “How about the time you were nearly beaten to death by an old lady with an umbrella because you were staring at her granddaughter like a creep on the train?”

“What?” Steve pauses for a second and thinks. “Oh, yeah. The lighting composition of her face was spectacular,” he hums fondly at the memory before screwing up his face in disgust at remembering the chaos that ensued. He’d nearly gotten kicked off the train. “I wasn’t staring at her,” he protests.

“Mm.” She doesn’t buy it and wanders around a corner, effectively ending the discussion.

“Didn’t think you’d stop by.” Steve strikes up the conversation again while he stands up, folding the boxes shut and kicking them under a tablecloth.

“Don’t kid yourself. I’m here on business,” she calls back immediately.

Steve smiles anyways, in spite of her brusque tone. He knew Nat was very happy where she was in Brooklyn – it was the one place, she had told him once, that, she felt could comfortably keep up with her hectic, no-nonsense lifestyle. Even if she is here on business, Steve knows out of the thousands of things she could be doing, she chose to stop by here.

“Well, glad you were able to stop by, then, seeing as you’re so busy hanging out with the bigwigs. So honored you deigned to visit me,” Steve teases her. He hears a huff from behind him and laughs quietly under his breath before turning around.

Nat ambles towards him, her movements lithe and purposeful. He observes her informally, the image sending his mind spiraling down a rabbit-hole of new ideas, even as he stands smack dab in the middle of his showing. If Steve could convince her to dance – just once – for him, he’s sure she’d give him more than enough inspiration for an entire portrait series in and of itself. But the former ballerina remains as stubbornly silent about her dancing years as she was the very first day they met, and Steve doubts she’d cave any time soon.

“Everything looks fantastic.” She lets her face soften into a small smile. And, really, that’s all the approval Steve truly needs. If Nat approves? He’s golden. His shoulders sag, relieved of the tension he hadn’t know he’d been holding.

“Thanks. Hope everyone else thinks so too.” He checks his phone. One more hour till opening.

Perhaps noticing his nerves, Nat speaks again, causing him to look up. “The circus is in town.”

“Overheard a kid talking about it earlier.” Steve nods, mildly surprised by the sudden statement, but easily jumping conversation topics with her. Somehow, she makes even conversational jumps seem effortless.

“I want to go. Wanna come?”

“You?” Now Steve can’t keep the surprise from coloring his words. The circus was the last place he’d expect Nat to want to go.

“Mm.” She hums an affirmative. “The scenic designer, Matt Murdock, is really famous, and his work is nothing short of exceptional. He’s worked with bands and singers like The Chaste, Defenders, and Elektra. He doesn’t normally work with this particular show – Kid Commandos – because he doesn’t like traveling work, so I really want to see his work in person, and maybe get to talk to him.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. That made more sense. “Is this a temporary gig or something for him?

Nat shook her head. “Nah. The show is run by the larger parent company he works at, Shield Entertainment, but they’re based in Europe, and most of their shows are there, which is where he works most of the time. They only have a few touring ones in the States.”

“I see. Is this a new show?”

“Kind of? It’s about half a year old, I think. They started their tour on the west coast, and are just about wrapping up in the next month or so.”

“That’s cool. What do they do?”

“Your typical circus act, I think. A little bit of everything, a hodgepodge of eclectic paraphernalia. Some animals too, though I’ve heard they’ve been in a bit of a hot spot with the media because of it.”

Steve tries to picture it. He’s never been to the circus before. All he can think about are little music boxes, movie theater popcorn, and elephants with feather caps on their heads. And Dumbo.

“When were you thinking about going?” Steve asks doubtfully, rubbing his chin a little.

“This week? I’m only in town till Tuesday.”

Steve feels a little uneasy. Usually, showings take a lot out of him, and this is his first, larger showing. Had it been like any other art show he’d done in the past, he probably would have said yes without hesitation. But this showing is three weeks long. “Maybe. I can’t do any evenings because of, well,” he gestures around at the room, “this.”

“Two days from now? Sunday?” She cocks her head, looking at him. “You’ve just got a matinee showing at 1:30 that day, right?”

Steve is ninety-nine percent certain that that information is correct, but just for posterity’s – and his anxious mind’s – sake, he pulls out his phone to check the Sentinel’s confirmation email, his showing flyers, and his Google calendar. “Yeah,” he nods, scrolling through the tiny screen.

“Perfect. Then it’s settled.”

“I haven’t even said yes!”

“But you will.” Steve glares at her, and she allows him the tiniest, smug smile. He’s lost before they’ve even started.

“How do you know?” Steve challenges her again anyways, just to be obstinate.

“Cuz you’ve never been, and even if curiosity kills the cat, with you, satisfaction will definitely bring it back. Besides, you need something to take your mind off your showing, and with the showing you’re not going to have much time to start new pieces anyways.” She says this all with an air of finality, and even Steve, ever the fighter, knows when he’s lost, however small the battle.

“Is it far away?”

“Thirty minutes. SEPTA station at 6. It’s a date.”

“Do you do this with all your boy toys too?” Steve grumps at her.

“Only the ones that are pushovers.”

“Are you saying I’m a pushover?”

“I’m not saying you’re not.” Steve huffs and checks his phone again. Thirty minutes.

“You’ll like it. I know you’re into bodies and stuff.”

“Okay, that just sounds wrong.” Steve wrinkles his nose.

“It’s not factually wrong.” Nat responds, quirking one side of her mouth up in amusement.

“I know,” Steve grouses, giving her a friendly shove. He’d always been interested in the way the human body moved and looked. Perhaps it was because he grew up a sickly child – still hadn’t managed to fully shake off the asthma, thanks very much – and didn’t have a body he felt proud of. Or maybe because his mother had been a dance instructor, and the way she moved, even if it was to grab a soup spoon from the drawer, or bend over to clear the lint from the clothes dryer, had always held an air of elegance, poise, and secrecy to it. Whatever it was, Steve found himself inexplicably and helplessly entranced.

“Where do you get tickets?” He finally asks Nat. “I’m not completely saying yes, though,” he warns her. “This is a big showing, and I want to see how tonight goes at the very least.”

“Online. Search Kid Commandos in Philly. It should be the first thing that pops up.” Nat touches him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m going to duck out of here – I’ve got a meeting to run to, but you’re going to rock it. I trust you have plans for going out tonight to celebrate – “ She arches a brow when Steve awkwardly laughs, “so I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“Thanks Nat. See you.”

* * *

After she leaves, Steve does as she prompts, googling the show, and clicking on the first link. The webpage pops up in a bold splash of black, blue, and red colors. Steve can’t quite place the design – it doesn’t scream modern, to be sure, (which he appreciates) but isn’t quite what he associates with traditional circus design. The smiling face of a shirtless man dangling from a duo of straps adorns the right side of the page. He’s not heavily done up in makeup, Steve observes, a small detail that he decides he appreciates. The simplicity lets him revel in the man’s shockingly blue eyes and mop of messily tied up hair. He allows himself to entertain a second or two of admiration and longing for the man before he continues scrolling, There’s something pleasing and symmetrical about the website design, but the comfort traditionally associated with a clean design feels oddly disturbed and distorted. Not in a bad way, Steve decides. More like Wes Anderson meets Willy Wonka, he decides for the time being.

He scrolls to find the Sunday showing and puts the adult ticket in his cart. Fifty dollars. He clicks the automatic credit card information filler – who even remembers their credit card information anyways – and hits the process button. A small pop-up appears on the screen, and his phone buzzes in his hand, notifying him of the email confirmation.

Steve stares at the screen for a second more before turning off the screen and tucking his phone into his pocket. He doesn’t know how to feel about going. Part of him wants to, because – as Nat so helpfully pointed out – he is curious. But on the other hand, he’s all caught up in this showing, and doesn’t want other things sidelining him – he’s got enough additional side projects and commissions on his hands already as is. Steve sighs. Sunday is far away. He has time to cancel if he needs. And, he takes comfort in the small fact that he is to date the only person he knows who’s been successfully able to say no to Natasha and walk away (emotionally) intact.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! So sorry for dropping off the face of the earth. Had a bunch of things roll over but I did work on this, I promise, and I'm excited to share more of this little universe with you. Enjoy the show - all oopsies are mine.

Steve is wrong. Not that he isn’t usually, but Sunday comes much faster than he thinks it will, especially being preoccupied as he is with his showing. It barrels around the corner and socks him right in the stomach and by the time he’s groaned, rolled over, and dusted himself off, it’s five forty on a Sunday evening. 

“Dammit,” Steve scowls into the mirror, hopping around his room with half a sock on and his phone only a third of the way charged, buried under his recently divested button-down and slacks. A reproachful meow sounds behind him, and he turns halfway around to glower at the judgmental cat. “Oh shuddup, I’m trying.” He tries to be on time to things, he really does. But the good lord knows how frequently, or perhaps infrequently, his attempts to make things work go as planned. The train station is a fifteen-minute walk from his apartment and he hasn’t even bought his ticket yet (he keeps forgetting to refill his reusable card). Not that there’s ever a line at the ticket booth, but it’s rush hour, and the few minutes he takes getting his debit card stuck in the semi-functional machine can make all the difference between squeezing onto the train and missing it.

He dashes a comb through his hair – it’s still gelled from the matinee showing earlier – throws on a less-wrinkly t-shirt and (hopefully) clean pair of jeans, scoops his leather jacket off the floor, and runs into the kitchen. Forty five percent will have to be good enough, he decides, yanking his phone off the charger, stuffing his keys into his pocket, patting his butt to check for his wallet, and dashing unceremoniously out the door, taking the steps two at a time to the parting sound of his door slamming shut. 

He keeps up a good pace going down the three flights, but nearly falls and dies on the last two before he’s off and sprinting again. Natasha Romanoff would have his head if he were late. He makes it to the station with a minute to spare – exactly enough time to print his ticket – and by the time he’s managed to haul his sorry ass up to the platform, the sign is blinking “due” in giant electric green letters. Unsurprisingly, Nat is already there, scrolling through her phone.

“Hey.” Steve wills his heart rate down – like he does most things – as he walks over to her. If sheer willpower were any indication of success, he’d have landed himself in the Louvre long ago, he thinks dryly. 

“Your showing went well. Meet any interesting people?” she says by way of response, without even glancing up. Figures she would know, even without having to ask. He doesn’t bother asking how she knows. 

“A few,” he says, feeling the warm heat of pride tickle his lungs. It sits there, a bright, brilliant ball of energy that threatens to burst into a smile. “I got in touch with a few local teachers, actually, so I might be teaching some little people. But I met an old couple that was interested in buying one of my works, and talked to a lady who coordinates a few Midwest group art shows, so I might be doing those in a few months.” Nat lets him ramble for a bit, from the station into the train, and then for the next several stops until he’s plumb out of steam. “Sorry.” Steve has the decency to at least pretend he looks sheepish. 

“No, you’re not,” Nat retorts, the curve of a smile ghosting her lips. “And rightly so.” She settles more comfortably into her seat, refusing to tuck her elbow in when she accidentally pokes the man sitting beside her. 

“Do you think we’ll get there on time?” Steve looks at his phone, tracking their progress on Google Maps. The train is taking longer than expected, even for rush hour.

“It’ll be tight, but the tents are right next to the stop, so I think we’ll be fine. And they’ll probably start late,” Natasha answers. Steve nods silently and leans his head back to rest against the glass pane, content to let the stumbling, breathless rattle of the train fill his ears and mind. 

He peers around the cart in a disinterested manner, glossing over each person and quickly assigning him or her a color and medium. The lady sitting diagonal left of him clutches her wicker shoulder bag against her stomach, fisting a floppy hat in her left hand whilst she scrolls on her phone with her right. She looks like marigold, Steve thinks. He closes his eyes and imagines painting the people in the train cart. Concept: the Centralia fire, gloriously iridescent and vibrant, in a steel Pandora’s box. He opens his eyes to see Nat giving him a bemused glance. He rolls his eyes in response.

“What project are you in town for?” 

“A new show is going up in Forrest in about fourteen weeks. It’s called The Red Room, based off a novel by Kristoff Goldman Berns, and my friend Clint is directing it. We’re at the end of week two of the design phase already, but I haven’t been able to clear my schedule till now to come.”

“Sounds intriguing. How do you like it so far?”

“It’s not bad. Keeps me on my toes. Barton’s an asshat – he knows I’ll take whatever project he tosses at me, however impossible it’ll be to mount. They keep getting bigger and grander, and cutting it closer to opening night, and one of these days it’s going to turn around and bite him in the ass.” She says this all fondly, though, with a soft glimmer in her normally fierce eyes. 

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Steve remarks with amusement. He’s one to talk – most of his projects are still drying by the time his deadlines roll around. It’s not that he procrastinates, that much. Projects just somehow end up taking longer than he expects them to. A throbbing ache starts up in between his eyebrows and Steve scowls, squinting his eyes shut momentarily. He’s never been good with motion. He looks down at the map, observing the little blue dot move further and further into the heart of the city. Almost there, he tries to reassure himself. Still, the throbbing blooms until it becomes a full on headache, and by the time they’re off the train and into the streets his lips and fingertips are tingling, telltale signs of his motion sickness moving into dangerously nauseous territory. 

They walk the rickety two blocks it takes to get to the white tents, but before they even see them, Steve can hear the clamor of people and smell frying oil. When they round the corner, Steve notes wryly that there are a lot of kids. Small, vendor stall-like tents dot the surrounding landscape, caged in by silver metal fences. 

“The Howling Commandos do stuff in collaboration with local artists as well as their own,” Nat explains, catching sight of his furrowed brows. “It’s kind of like a pop up flea market, swap-meet, festival type deal.” Steve spies metal work, pottery, and some pop culture prints. 

“Why didn’t I get an invite?” Steve whines. 

“You didn’t even know the circus was in town.” He can’t say anything to counter the truth of that statement so he settles for an indignant huff as he looks around, walking closer to the booths. “There’ll be time to come back later. I think you can get in without a ticket too,” Nat says impatiently, heading towards the entrance.

“Fine,” Steve says reluctantly, following her. Even in line though, he can’t stop his mind and gaze from wandering around in fascination. The circus is a rowdy affair, with more lights and glamour than he ever thought possible. It’s as overwhelming as it is thrilling and he feels as if he’s been wholly consumed by an Afremov painting. After they’ve gotten their tickets ripped, he stands beside the entrance for a minute, already dizzyingly drunk on the effervescent lights and whirling colors. The inside is somehow more extravagant than the outside.

“Come on, they’ll probably start soon.” Nat tugs none-too-gently on his jacket sleeve and the spell is broken. Steve glances at his phone screen. The show is due to start in a minute. They shove their way through the crowd to find their seats and when all is said and done, Steve finds himself squeezed at the very end of the bench, very nearly falling into the aisle. The fact that half his body is basically not on a seat bothers him until the lights dim and his attention is drawn to the pair of clowns at the bottom of his seating section, their faces white-washed by the blinding spotlights. He watches contentedly as they make their way up the audience until – much too belatedly – he realizes with horror that they’ve been poking fun at audience members seated beside the aisles. 

It makes sense, but still Steve squirms in his seat, trying to shrink into Nat’s side like some awful ceratoid. It must be the movement that gives him away, or perhaps the fact that he’s always had the worst luck, but one of the clowns notices and it takes an immense amount of Steve’s willpower to will himself to stay put. He gives the clown a polite, but tight smile when he taps on Steve’s shoulder. Before he knows it, the clown is pulling him up and, grabbing both Steve’s hands in his own, spins him in a slow circle, does a little jig, and indicates for Steve to do the same. Steve isn’t sure what to do, but he doesn’t want to be a killjoy, so he awkwardly does as told. He wishes the ground would swallow him up. He vows to never dance again. 

The people all around him are laughing – not mean-spiritedly, he reminds himself over and over again – and Steve does his best to muster up a small, if not hesitant laugh. He ignores the uncomfortable flip and twist of his stomach and forces it away. That was so long ago. He’d be damned if he was beholden to one stupid mistake for the rest of his life. When he finally sits down, face tomato-red, the clown winks at him, honks his little pocket horn, pats his head and continues on his merry way. Steve is mortified. He can’t look at Nat. He can’t look anywhere but at the distant velvet curtain in front of him. He’s grateful when the lights finally, mercifully, dim all the way down and the show begins.

**

He thought the circus was bright and loud before the show. What a joke. Steve actually feels small, which is no small feat in and of itself. He can feel his ribs vibrate, but whether that’s due to the strength of the music pouring from the speakers or the jackhammering of his own heart, he can’t tell. The set, the lights, even the people all sparkle with a vibrant energy that Steve thinks he hasn’t seen or felt in a long, long time. It makes all his colors and paintings pale in comparison, and woefully he’s momentarily sidetracked by the thought that he could never dream up something as grand and beautiful as this. All too soon, the music tapers, and the spotlights fade, and Steve swallows his disappointment, assuming intermission is coming.

But there’s a figure stepping out of the smoke and shadows to the quiet lull of piano keys and Steve can hardly breathe for how pleasantly surprised he is. It feels as if the floor beneath him has fallen away, that all the extravagant lights around him were nothing but introduction, insincere in a silly way that all but intensifies the raw, unpolished performance before him. The set and lighting are beautiful – dim and warm the way Steve’s own artworks are – but pale in comparison to the performer stepping in. His face is shadowed by the purple lights and overdrawn with colorful makeup, but Steve just knows he’s stunning, if the curvature of his jaw and the softly shaded cheekbones are anything to go by. He is topless, dressed only in a flowing water-like pair of white pants, and dances with a fluidity that Steve only wishes he could paint with. 

A large metal hoop rolls out towards the man as he dances, and he whirls around, large hands closing gently around the top of it and spinning it effortlessly into a whirling silver mass. Steve has never seen anything like it. He marvels at the strength and grace and poise, and the effortlessness with which the man maneuvers himself around the inanimate object without making it seem contrived. His hair must be long; it’s bundled back into a small bun sitting at the nape of his neck. Steve can’t wrap his mind around the act – can’t comprehend how the man makes the hoop look and act like a dancer, a lover, through simple flicks of the wrist. There’s no way one can use the words “love” or “courtship” to describe a dance with a metal hoop, but this, Steve thinks, is it. The hoop whisks around the man and he lets it roll easily off his chest before grabbing it with his right hand. He dances around, wheel in hand as he leaps counterclockwise in a small circle and then he steps into the hoop and is spinning around and upside down like the world’s most beautiful top. He’s kept in the confines of the hoop strictly through sheer centripetal force and for several horrifying seconds Steve is terrified the man will crush his fingertips every time he presses down towards the ground. 

Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, Steve thinks. Atlas, he thinks. Icarus, a whirling, beautiful mess. Is it possible for someone to look like they are continuously falling while never leaving the ground? By the end of the dancer’s routine a few stray wisps of hair have escaped, falling in sticky strands around his face and amidst the thundering applause all Steve can think about is the thickness of the brush he’ll need to use to capture the exact way his dark hair frames his cheeks and wild eyes. 

**

Nat cranes her neck to see above the crowd, dragging Steve along by the sleeve as she deftly maneuvers through the throng of people. “Stop moving so quickly,” Steve complains. For as easily as she seems able to move amongst the audience members without so much as upsetting a scarf, Steve seems condemned to squashing every single foot within the prescribed square footage. 

“Ow, ow – sorry, excuse me – excuse me – thank you, pardon me – no, sorry – oh, I’m terribly sorry –“ Steve winces as he’s met with more than a couple of sour glances. “Nat,” he calls out, unsure of whether or not she’ll actually hear him, “I think maybe I’ll catch up to you in a bit?” All the people around him have him feeling slightly overwhelmed and he knows there’s no way he’s going to make it out of this mob alive, with the number of glares he’s receiving. 

There’s no audible response, but his pocket buzzes. Steve pulls his phone out. Nat: “Door 3D. It’s in your best interest to come.” He sighs, looks longingly at the tent exit, and resigns himself to trudge onward against the flow of the crowd. 

**

3D is as innocuous as its name – for all he knows it could be the entrance to a utility room. He doesn’t see anyone enter or exit through the door and no one around him seems to be paying it any attention. Steve tugs tentatively at the door handle, wrinkling his brow when it doesn’t budge. He tries again, harder, and still nothing happens. He wishes it were knob instead of a handle; then he’d actually know if it was locked instead of looking like the idiot he feels like now. It feels all sorts of wrong and he’s about to do the ol’ about-face when a voice stops him. 

“You look a little confused. Can I help you with something?”

Steve whips around, finding himself face to face with none other than the dancer himself. He blinks, mildly surprised, and feels his breath catch in his throat as he takes in the finer details of the man for the first time. He’s still shirtless and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His bun is gone now, in its stead an unruly mess of chin-length, chestnut colored hair, and his eyes are a shock of solemn blue. Everything on his face is exaggerated with the stage makeup, but Steve thinks he would have to be blind to miss the sharpness of the dancer’s cheekbones and the angular curve of his jawline, still padded with the softness of youth. His face shines even in the dimmed light and for a second, Steve envisions him as a wild horse, high-strung and vividly alive. 

“Oh,” Steve begins eloquently, “I, uh, I’m looking for a friend.” The dancer deliberately eyes the door, with Steve’s hand still on it, mind you, and flicks his gaze to Steve’s face. He doesn’t smile, but Steve sees the bemusement in his eyes.

“She’s an artist. Set designer,” he hastily elaborates. “She said she was going backstage to meet with the producer for tonight’s show to talk about design things.” 

The man tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, and oh, Steve likes that very much, please and thank you. His brain is going haywire trying to, on one hand, hold a proper conversation with the very attractive stranger, and on the other, figuring out which mediums would be best for painting said attractive stranger. 

“I see.” His tone suggests that he really doesn’t. “What’s her name?” The dancer’s voice is smooth and strong like coffee, and flows like the nice ink pens that Steve can’t ever afford. It’s not as deep as he expected, but definitely darker, and much, much warmer than it has any right to be.

“Nat,” he says automatically. “Natasha Romanov.” The other man’s brows furrow to form a tiny divot on his forehead. Nope, then. “She said to go to door 3D?” Steve tries, gesturing to the door. 

The dancer opens his mouth to speak, but is abruptly interrupted by said door flying open with such vigor that Steve startles, stepping backwards and sideways right onto his toes and bumping into him. He catches Steve, wrapping large, warm hands around Steve’s forearm. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Steve nods absently, attention presently captured by the clown emerging from the door. He peers beyond into what looks to be a dressing room, but the door is quickly shut. 

“James!” he cries theatrically, throwing his arms out. 

The dancer – James? – chuckles. “Do you know a Natasha Romanov?” 

Steve expects a no, but much to his surprise the clown’s eyes widen. He turns to face Steve. “Ah! A a friend of Natalia’s?” It’s the same one, Steve realizes belatedly, that had teased him during the show. He doesn’t have his hat on anymore, but the small flower water gun is still propped up crookedly in his oversized shirt pocket. His voice, too, is different from what Steve expected. It’s brittle, but deep, and contains what Steve imagines to be a strong Western European accent. 

“Yeah,” Steve nods vigorously, feeling more and more like a bobble head as the night goes on.

“Ah,” the clown says, beaming. Steve decides to forgive him for the mortifying dancing earlier. He claps his gloved hands together. “I think I can be of some help.” He turns to the dancer. “Mon cherie,” he grabs his face and kisses the air on either side of his cheek, causing him (James?) to laugh. “My magnificent presence is required, as always, but I trust I will see you later this evening.” To Steve, he says, “This way!” and gestures towards the closed door. 

“It’s not…locked?” Steve asks cautiously.

James laughs from beside him. “Nah. It’s a sticky door though. Gotta use those muscles of yours,” he winks at Steve, who feels pink dust his nose and cheeks, and then he’s gone, slipping through the crowd like a fish through water. 

True to form, the clown looks like he uses his entire body weight to heave the door open, which pops open with a sticky sound. “Andrizzi.” The clown offers a hand after getting the door open. 

“Steve.” He accepts the hand as they make their way backstage.

**

Nat is neck deep in some conversation about rotating platforms and wet and dry stages and Steve…Steve just nods politely and pretends to know what’s going on. They started backstage, had a mini tour through the sound booth and the catwalk and the dressing rooms, and ended up by the flys, moving back and forth between the wings and stage so as not to be in the way of the techies moving props and the like.

“…shouldn’t be too much a problem with the a rotating double-deck platform if we’ve got a couple of overlapping half pipes, right? What do you think, Steve?” Steve really appreciates Nat’s attempt to include her in this conversation, he really does, but he doesn’t know shit about set design even though he’s painted for a couple of them before. 

“Nat,” he begins, opening his mouth to tell her as much. But before he can get any further, the fly technician beside him bellows out a familiar name and the rest of his sentence is completely drowned out.

“James!” Steve winces and jumps away from the man, hand going up to his ear. “Get out of the way, goddammit.”

“Sorry,” a voice sounds from behind Steve, not sorry at all. “Thank you, first electric.”

Steve turns around to see James walking over, an unapologetic smile on his face. He’s got a jacket around his shoulders now, but he’s still bare-chested.

“No you’re not, you punk,” the flyman shoots back. James shrugs a solo shoulder.

“Hey, good seeing you again!” James greets Steve. “See you found your friend?” He raises his brows at Nat and Steve nods. 

“Never did get your name? James.”  
“Steve. Nice to meet you, James.”

“Bucky,” a cast member calls out, walking past. James swipes at her side, missing when she dances easily out of reach. 

“Bucky,” Steve repeats automatically, though he has no real comprehension of the word. 

“Short for Buchanan. My middle name,” Bucky explains. 

“Ain’t it cute?” the girl who said it tosses over her shoulder. She has red hair, red enough to rival Nat’s, though hers goes all the way to her waist. Bucky – James – casually flips her off, though he wears an easy grin.

“Oh, I see.” Bucky. Bucky. It’s a weird name. Steve turns the name over a few times in his head. “James Buchanan.” 

“Barnes,” James supplies helpfully.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve says the name slowly, rolls it around in his mouth. 

James indulges him for a moment, bemused, then shakes his head and laughs. “No one ever calls me by my full name. Only my mother, when I’m in trouble. The usual.”

“So you don’t go by Bucky?” 

“I did as a kid,” James says easily. “Had a stint in my teenage years where I thought it sounded unprofessional and switched to James.” 

“We work in a circus – you grew up in this circus – and you’re talking about professionalism here?” the designer, Happy, observes, in between fielding Nat’s questions. Steve laughs at that and James dips his head, conceding the point. 

“Ran around being called Bucky as a kid, so most everyone here got used to it pretty quick. Old habits die hard and all that.”

“Why’d you shorten Buchanan?” Steve asks, only half teasing. “It’s a grand name.” He doesn’t think he’s ever heard the name outside of old American novels. It’s not a bad name, but it certainly seems dated.

“Yeah?” Bucky quirks a brow. “You’d be one of the few. I had an ex reference Great Gatsby once.”

Steve chooses to pointedly ignore the mention to Bucky’s ex, though he does make a face at the reference. “Ah, Tom Buchanan. What a compliment.” Bucky laughs in agreement. “Well, if you ever have a spare moment when you’re not hanging out fifty feet above the ground, I’ll introduce you to some better Buchanans.” 

“I’ll hold you to it,” Bucky warns him. 

“Please do. So you prefer James?” Steve asks to clarify.

“Yeah,” James nods. “Really only Bex and Wanda do it now – that’s the girl with the red hair from earlier – but Bex is my sister and Wanda is like my other sister. Backstage I go by James, Barnes, Albireo.”

“Albireo?”

“Stage name. Binary star, because I dance with a wheel and we circle each other, ha ha.” He articulates the ha’s, and Steve snorts. 

“Do you actually respond to your character name?” 

“Not really,” Bucky admits with a sheepish grin. “You would think I would by now; it’s been so long. I’ve gotten better at it, but it’s still not great. I think I’d be better at it if we actually used our names in the show. They’re only really used for marketing and branding purposes, and for our privacy.” 

“Got it.”

“You got any nicknames I should know about, Stevie?” 

Steve raises a brow at the diminutive. “I got one now, seems like.”

“Steve!” That’d be Nat. “Quit flirting with the dancer and come tell Happy about your work.”

“You also a set designer?” James sounds impressed. 

“Oh no, that’s Nat,” Steve points to the redhead, while slowly making his way over. “Me, I just do your standard, run-of-the-mill paintings, portraits, things like that. I dabble a little in sculpting, but that’s really it. Large scale theatrical work isn’t my thing, but I’ve done a couple of smaller shows and I’d like to do some more if I can.” He can’t stop himself from rambling so he settles for topping off his tirade with a nervously lopsided smile. 

“What kind of paintings do you do? Landscape? People?” 

“People.” Steve thinks back to his exhibit of mostly bodies, hands and backs and featureless faces. Abstracted people, but it’s not a lie. 

“Nice.” Steve’s heart flutters a little at that, but not in a good way. ‘Nice’ is what you say to someone or something you’re not that interested or invested in, right? It is, he supposes, only fair that he give James some slack – he just performed a show for goodness’ sake. He nearly misses James’ next words.

“I’d love to see your work some time.”


End file.
